


Ice Cream

by matryoshka (Evil_Overlord)



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV First Person, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 06:09:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Overlord/pseuds/matryoshka
Summary: This place is a mess and it’s cramped, but it was home, and it’s taking me back to sweet memories, and it used to be enough. This space used to scream us until we started screaming at each other,but yeah this, right here, right now? This screams us.A post break up fic. Would you consider that a happy ending? If you're looking for one, probably best to not read this.





	Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit poetic and written in free form. Katya's point of view.

I went back to our apartment. It’s still unlocked as if inviting trouble—well, I would’ve panicked before, but we really no longer have nothing to lose. Are we broke? Financially, no, but you know what I mean. It was still a relief though to see the place untouched and as it is. I’m such a fool, expecting to hear blasting Ariana Grande music, but you weren’t there, and even if the place seemed the same, I know it’s not. Most of the things stayed where I last saw them, which isn’t surprising considering it’s only been- what- a week?

 

A week of not seeing you, not calling you, but definitely a week full of thoughts of you, you missing, missing you, your awkward long limbs that I lo— like. Like. That's fair. I figured I should give you space, but maybe I needed it more than you. Were you thinking of me? Because I tried to not think of you, key word is tried, outcome is hopeless.

 

Our—this place is small, cramped, like how I remembered it, we’ve decided what’s the point of buying a lavish flat when we rarely get to be there together, and I’m glad that we were practical- but I try not to dwell on the memories of our dwelling- ha! a pun- Usually, I could make myself laugh, but my smile didn’t even reach my eyes. I sigh, if you can’t make yourself laugh, you’ll live a lonely life!

 

I opted to keep my shoes on, it wouldn’t matter anyway. You wouldn’t be scolding me, you wouldn’t care, and I won’t stay for long. And yes, in all the things that I do, I would still consider what you would say. Sometimes, and by sometimes I mean when I'm a crying mess of a woman these past few days, I’d actually find myself wishing to hear Brenda more and less of your voice.

 

Our place doesn’t have a kitchen, no wonder we are both so skinny, I was always worried you’re malnourished and—anyways, there was just a single bed, a cabinet, a desktop, a mirror, a few small tables, some chairs that does not match the tables- oh, it doesn’t match, not at all. Books, magazines, your sketches of her- the cartoony galactic princess- some torn and some not. I spot small dead cigarette sticks, 7/11 plastics- both my fault, you tried forcing me into breaking these habits because you said you needed me to stay longer than another five years, but I never really got around that, and maybe that’s why we’re here. Ow! I just stumbled upon a weird doll that you got from one of our thrift shop expeditions- those were always fun, but seriously, you hoard too much stuff. What a mess, there were also scattered clothes, mostly dresses and pantyhose and some rare boy clothes, as a whore, I’m surprised we rarely have men over. Of course I’m kidding. I see your old nails which you decided are too damaged to be mended—that kind of stabbed my dried up heart, wait, oh I see socks with missing pairs- and I sympathized with the sock. The clatter on the floor reminds me too much of us, so I had to look up, then I saw our wall, and I wish I hadn’t done that. Wall of pictures- of you, of me, of us, and I wonder, when did you stop looking at me like I hung the moon.

 

It was like those scenes in the movies where they were too late to notice the car coming, so all they could do was close their eyes. I closed my eyes; those scenes were always stupid, as if closing your eyes would save you, from the accident, from the reality, from the pain. Spoiler, they never do. I know, I know, I’m flexible, I’m not a dancer though, but I seem to be professional at dancing around, avoiding my insecurities and problems, and thank the goddess, Ru Paul.

 

I now turned my attention to the drawers, we—this place needs to get cleaned, there’s too much dust, it makes my eyes water. Also, I might need to make an appointment with my doctor, the dust never made my eyes water before ha! I wiped my eyes because things were getting blurry, and guess what I found on the drawers. Your jar of karate patches. You never went back to doing karate, but your obsession with them never went away. You’re such a child, and this reminds me of Christmas, too many of them spent with you. And I don’t really need those thoughts right now, so like the flexible hooker that I am, I headed to the bed. I swear that made more sense in my head! Wait! We are in my head. Makes sense.

 

I saw a little hand jewelry of mine, and so I picked it up. But I really wish I hadn’t reached for this hand, and instead reached for yours that night because then I wouldn’t be here, and we—we could still be we—us. Grammar, am I right? Well, as a poet, I invoke my driver’s license.

 

Underneath the bed, I saw luggage and boxes marked with your name and a new address, and the tires screeched, the police asked for my license, now where was it. Paralyzed with fear. I feel a left turn. My mind is blank now.

 

Underneath the bed, I saw luggage and boxes marked with your name and a new address, and

it screams you

 

 

 

And me,

 

           

                       

                        It screams us.

 

I had to stand up immediately, and I realized my feet actually went cold. Suddenly it was too bright outside, and the room felt too cramped, hot as fuck. HOT. AS FUCK.

 

Our little plant, beloved li’l poundcake, neglected---

 

                                                Dead, by the window.

 

            And it screams                                                            us                               

 

It screams                                                       you,

 

 

                                    and me.

 

 

I’m thankful for the curtains, helping me with the harsh sun.

 

I feel enveloped and protected, yet bare and raw, just like a youthful fetus

 

 

                                                            And I thought of you.

 

                                                And I was angry at myself. I’m sorry.

And I screamed:  Y O U

                                    Not knowing who I’m imploring, really—

 

            Tears

                        threatening

                                   

                                                to

 

                                                fall,

 

                                                                        and my eyes landed on the single set of keys.

 

Apartment 707—home, I thought. Hot chocolate, contact, vegetables, I remember.

Did you know that people believe that 707 is a lucky number. It gives you luck, supposedly, I think. Well, I guess we were lucky. They never said it will give you long lasting bliss. But we're lucky. 

 

Reflecting the harsh light of the sun that seeped through the windows, blinding me, I squinted, I saw, 

 

                                    I felt betrayed—

 

Your set of keys, reflecting the harsh light of the sun that seeped through the windows, are blinding me, and I felt betrayed—

                        Your set of keys,

the curtains cannot cover all, I guess. Not your set of keys, not the reflection hurting me, not the hurt.

 

 

                        And I remembered you, and I allowed myself to this time.

 

I did not get angry, How could I get angry, when you weren't angry. You just went cold, Alaska. We were civilized, you told me what's up after I finished morning coffee, very considerate. Very kind. You've always been kind, but I— I wished you'd just grab a fork and stabbed me. That way I have a reason to be angry, I want to be angry, to feel anything, anything else rather than sadness and longing and looming thoughts of where did we go wrong? Where did I go wrong?

I don't want to cry anymore, so I allowed myself the memories of lazing in the couch all day, a random episode of the Golden Girls playing on your laptop for the 37th time. 

 

Did those memories stopped me from crying? Not really, but I caught myself smiling at those memories, and I didn’t know I had closed my eyes until I opened them—and damn it, god damn it—I needed a smoke—I was now staring at myself at the weird antique mirror you got me, and then

 

                        I saw you,

 

your reflection,

 

                                                            behind me.

 

And I had a good look at us in the mirror,

 

                        I screamed you

 

                                                                                                still,

 

 

                                                                        still you, my eyes still look at you like you hung the moon, I'm wearing the smile that I know you like best. I'm even wearing your cap—

 

But you no longer screamed me—

                                                           

oh at all.

 

 

            and this screams us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, Kat. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.” You smiled at me. I’m glad that you could smile. But I felt a cut at your use of Kat. I guess we’re back to being friends from work, Joanne.

 

“Yeah, hi, Lask. I just came ba—came here to pick this up.” I showed you the tiny hand that I’ve picked up just moments before you arrived. I am proud to be able to suck my tears in, and face you. I am a man, yep.

 

You laughed, it echoed in the room, and the sound pleasantly cut my heart. I let myself hurt and bleed, for now.

 

                                    We can do this. You’re an expert in this, with Needles-Thunderfuck and all, and me? I’m flexible.

 

 

 

This place is a mess and it’s cramped, but it was home, and it’s taking me back to sweet memories, and it used to be enough. This space used to scream us until we started screaming at each other,

 

but yeah right now, this screams us, we’re over. And yes, I’ve heard you screaming, Brenda. Loud and painfully clear.

 

 

We are over.


End file.
